Page 69 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“How fortunate, then, that I am – how did you put it so charmingly? – an ungentlemanly oaf?”

“And you see how right I was?” I concentrated on preparing my gun properly, but I couldn’t resist stealing a glance at him.

That small, stubborn smile curled on his lips, the one he tried to hold back, the one that never quite blossomed into the full thing. He finished inspecting his gun and stood with it hanging loosely down by his side.

“So?” he said. “Who goes first?”

“I believe you should have the honour, my Lord. As the challenger in this case.”

A spark leaped in his eyes, and he strode towards the point marked on the ground where we would shoot from. I tried not to notice how handsome he was, I really did. I tried not to notice the muscles in his shoulders and his back, as he lifted his arm to check his aim, the way they bunched slightly under the white linen shirt and black waistcoat. I tried not to notice the way his dark hair curled against his collar, or his strong, capable hands, or the easy grace of his movements.

Then I didn’t have to try because suddenly his posture changed, and I was focused on the competition. I could see by his stance that he knew what he was doing, could see by the way he held a gun that he had done so before, many times.

In fact, he did not make a show of it; he simply lined up the shot and took it. I knew that it would be good, and it was. Together we made our way towards the target for a closer look, Nick as cool and unhurried as ever.

It was a perfect shot – or at least it was as near to perfect as one was ever likely to get, right in the middle of the target.

I let out a low whistle. “Very good, my Lord. Not just a pretty face, after all.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Grey. I believe it’s about time you began to realize that.” He looked closer at the target. “I think a hair to the left would have been better, but not a bad effort, no.” He turned back to look at me. “Are you still feeling confident about your chances?”

“A hair to the left, you say,” I repeated thoughtfully, bending to examine the target myself. “I think you’re probably right about that.”

When I straightened up, I found that we were standing extremely close together. His face was turned towards me, and my eyes were level with his jaw. For a moment I was so tempted to reach up and run my fingers over it that my hand began to move towards him of its own accord.

I froze, looking up at him, and his eyes fixed on mine. His eyes were ink dark, glittering. I was close enough to hear a hitch in his breathing. We stood like that for a long moment. My whole body felt like it was buzzing, as if touching me would set off sparks.

But Nick didn’t touch me. He just looked at me. At my eyes, at my mouth, back to my eyes again. I think I was holding my breath. I didn’t understand what was happening or what I wanted to happen.

Perhaps he found that thought in my eyes. Or perhaps he was having the same feelings. Either way, he stepped back, and all the air rushed back into the space between us.

I could breathe again.

“So,” Nick said, his voice slightly hoarse. “I’ll ask again, do you still think you can emerge the victor?”

“I believe I have a fighting chance, my Lord,” I replied, glad to hear that my own voice sounded steady. “I also believe that when you first mentioned this competition you said it would be a wager.”

“Did I?”

“You did.” I nodded.

“Very well,” he said, and I felt certain I must have imagined what had happened only moments ago. “A wager it will be. What shall we play for?”

We reached the table again, and I picked up my own pistol. “A shilling?” I suggested.

Nick tutted. “A shilling? We can do better than that. What is it that you really want?”

His voice deepened, and just like that, whatever had been there between us moments ago flooded back, setting my pulse galloping. Never mind that we were standing apart this time. My mouth dried, and the crackling feeling filled the air around me. His eyes narrowed and he took an involuntary step forward.

“A forfeit,” I squeaked, trying desperately to break whatever spell we were under.

A frown flickered across his face and he halted. “A forfeit?”

“Yes.” I nodded vigorously. “It’s what my father and I used to play for. A forfeit. It can come at any time.”

Usually, when Father had cashed his in, it had been to get me to eat my vegetables. If I had gained forfeits from him, they typically came in the form of sweets.

“Fine,” Nick said. “A forfeit.” I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t too worried about losing anyway.